


vertigo

by myrkks



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Asexuality Spectrum, Established Relationship, F/M, First Time, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Vaginal Fingering, ace soul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 13:20:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15316359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrkks/pseuds/myrkks
Summary: The thing is that Soul really does want to have sex.  Really, he does.





	vertigo

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in one sitting and am uploading it in a rush before my laptop dies, so please be kind about spelling/grammar
> 
> disclaimer for (extremely positive and comfortable!) sex discussion and negotiation and some pretty minor ace-related guilt thoughts

The last few months of the whirlwind that is dating Maka Albarn have been some of the best of Soul’s entire life, and he’s not going to start denying that any time soon.  It’s simultaneously been a lot — just an incredible amount, really — to take in, and the easiest thing in the world.  Once he started getting over the shock of her liking him back, which may admittedly take a few more years to fully process, they fell into it as easy as breathing.  Soul has never felt as in sync with her as he does right now.  
  
Or, at least, that’s usually the case.  
  
Soul has discovered a few things about himself since they’ve been together.  One is that he really, _really_ loves kissing, and could probably kiss Maka for the rest of his life nonstop if she’d let him.  Here rests Soul Evans, death by kissing.  There are worse ways to go.  
  
Another is that he doesn't particularly want to do anything beyond kissing.  Sex is — nice, in theory, something he’s thought about on and off for a while; but when Maka reaches her hands under his shirt mid-make out to slide across his back, he stiffens.  
  
She pulls them away immediately.  “No?” she asks, and there’s no judgement in it, no disappointment he can discern — but he worries anyway.  
  
“I — ” he starts, stumbles; Maka waits patiently in his lap.  “Maybe… not right now?”  
  
Maka nods and leans back in to kiss him, and even as he tangles his fingers in her hair, there’s a low, anxious feeling humming in his gut.  
  
So maybe Soul doesn't really like sex, or maybe he does?  It’s nice to think about, the idea of Maka under him, the feel of her skin on his hands; and when they make out on the couch a few days later, his mouth on her neck and his thigh pressed between her legs, his hand brushes against the curve of her chest over her shirt; her gasp shudders in her throat, and he delights in the warm burn in his gut and thinks: oh.  Oh, this is nice.  
  
He ducks his nose under her chin and thumbs at the hem of her pajama shirt.  “Is this okay?” he asks, rough and low, and her jaw knocks into his brow when she nods.  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” she breathes, open desire and characteristic impatience in her voice, and he almost laughs as he tugs it up off her body.  
  
They’ve known each other for years and he’s seen her topless before, in passing or by accident or while grieving their victories and licking their wounds.  There was never anything about it before that felt like _this_ , though — that felt like a closeness, an intimacy, a way she explicitly and intently wants him to see her.  He drags a hand up to cup her breast and his heart aches at the way that her breath catches.  
  
But then she pulls at hem of his shirt, too, and says, “You, too,” all hesitant and happy, and he feels himself freeze.  
  
“Uh,” he says, and curses himself at how the mood cracks immediately, fuck fuck fuck, “maybe… not?”  
  
Her eyes are wide and confused, but not upset.  “Okay,” she answers, hand cupping his jaw.  “Is — are you okay?  Is this okay?”  
  
His lips brush the base of her wrist when he nods into her touch.  “Yeah,” he replies, “I’m — this is great.  I just… can I just touch you?  Is that okay?”  
  
There’s a question in her eyes, bright and burning: is that what you want?  And he tilts his head to kiss the palm of her hand before leaning back down to her mouth and thinks: yes.  
  
The thing is that Soul _does_ want to have sex, he thinks; he’s pretty sure.  He’s thought about it, about this, about kissing Maka and touching Maka, fingers on her chest and ribs and neck, knee grinding against her until she gasps into his mouth — he’s thought about this a lot.  He’s had years to think about it.  
  
And yeah, maybe he’s never thought about touching anyone else, or about anyone touching him, ever, but does it matter?  He’s thought about it.  He wants this.  That’s how this works.  
  
When he trails his mouth down from her lips to her neck to her chest, he tangles their fingers together and it feels so right and great and he _wants_ this.  He wants her.  He minds his sharp teeth when he licks at her nipple, tugs it into his mouth and hums at the way that she yanks at his hair with a strangled noise in her throat, and it’s _good_.  It feels good.  
  
They end up in the same situation a week later, Maka on the bed and Soul on Maka.  He nips at her neck and puts his hands on the small of her back, yanks her up higher so that she grinds better against his thigh, and it’s good; it’s so good.  Her arms around his neck, fingers in his hair, he thinks over and over: I love you, I love you, I love you.  
  
She pushes lightly at his chest, and he pulls away immediately.  “What’s up?” he asks, trying for casual despite the catch in his breath and smudge of drool on his lips.  “You okay?”  
  
“I’m great,” she says, smile fond and sloppy, thumb rubbing against the ridge of his cheekbone.  “You’re great.”  
  
He has half the mind to be embarrassed about the pride that burns in his chest, and ignores it.  
  
But when he tilts back down to kiss her, her hand stays planted on his chest.  “Soul, wait,” she starts, and a kick of fear bursts under his skin.  “Can — give me a second, okay?”  
  
Oh.  “Yeah, of course,” he answers, letting up a little; he rests himself on an elbow and looks down at her.  “Are you good?  We can stop anytime, you know.”  
  
It wasn't supposed to sound as much like a question as it does, but Maka doesn't comment on it; the corner of her mouth twitches up into a smile.  “I know that, you big dummy,” she says, hand traveling up to rub lightly at the back of his neck.  “I just wanted to ask — to make sure you wanted to… be doing this?”  
  
He blinks at her.  “Of course I want to be doing this,” he answers, feels a flush burning up to his ears when his brain unhelpfully autofills “to be doing you.”  “What else would I want to be doing?”  
  
She laughs with her whole heart, and tugs his along for the ride.  “Implying that this is at the top of your list,” she teases.  
  
“Duh,” he answers, fighting viciously to keep his grin under wraps; but if her face is any indication, he doesn't succeed.  
  
“So, uh,” she starts suddenly, and his expression falters a bit when hers does; he worries obsessively over the nervous tilt to her voice, the way her eyes flicker away.  “You don’t… I don’t want to pressure you, or to make you think that this is important to me if it’s not to you, because I really don’t want to if you don’t want to, and I’m okay with whatever you — ”  
  
“Maka,” he interrupts seriously, relief hitting him in a wave when their eyes meet again, “I want to touch you.”  
  
Her mouth twists and her face turns red, but some of the anxiety seems to leave her.  “You really don’t have to,” she repeats.  He opens his mouth to answer, and she covers it with her hand.  “I’m serious, Soul,” she insists.  “I know you have this whole — I know you want to do things for me, but I really don’t want to if you don’t want to.  Really.”  
  
He licks her palm and snickers when she yanks her hand away with a shriek.  “I know that, dumbass,” he answers, insult lessened by the dopey smile he can feel splitting his face, the way he immediately dips his head down to kiss her knuckles without breaking eye contact.  Maka watches him with wide, wide eyes.  “I’m serious, too: I really, really want to touch you.”  
  
There’s a pause.  “I just,” he continues, losing the sharper part of his certainty, “don’t really want to take my clothes off?  Or have anything — I mean.  I just want to touch you.”  
  
Understanding breaks across Maka’s face and he longs to tell her how beautiful she is; he needs her to know.  “Oh,” she breathes, “okay, yeah, that’s — I got it.”  Her fingers start stroking through his hair again.  “Let me know if anything changes, okay?  If there’s anything else you want, or need, or if anything isn't okay anymore.  Because that’s all okay.”  
  
I know, he thinks.  I love you, he thinks.  “You’re beautiful,” he says.  When her flush comes back, a glowing stain of pink across her cheeks, he swipes his thumb across her jaw and kisses her.  
  
She’s pretty under his hands; she’s so very, very pretty.  He bites marks onto her neck, her chest, pulls away only long enough to whisper her things or admire the way the hickies overlap with her freckles, the scars that map her skin.  When his hand traces lightly at the waistband of her panties under her flipped up skirt, she grabs hold of his wrist and guides his fingers to touch her.  
  
The first thing he notices is that it feels different than he’d expected: wetter, and — slicker?  Not in a bad way, but in a way that he can’t help but pay attention to.  
  
The second is that she reacts immediately and loudly to everything he does to her, and he loves loves loves that.  He dips a finger between her lips, drags the wetness up to her clit, and she moans loud even around the hand clasped over her mouth.  
  
The third is that he never wants to stop doing this, ever.  Forget death by kissing; “Soul Evans, died from too much sex” sounds much, much better.  
  
“Hey,” he breathes, leans forward to kiss her cheek and keeps his touch light and steady on her clit.  “This is still okay?”  
  
Her eyes are squeezed shut, and he’d like her to be looking at him, but this is okay for now, he thinks.  At least this way she can’t see how red his face is, how wide his eyes are.  “Yeah,” she gasps, rocks her hips down into his touch.  “This is great, Soul; you’re great.”  
  
He noses at her neck and slowly moves his finger down from her clit to prod at her entrance.  “Do you want…?” he asks, and when she nods, he kisses her cheek again and carefully slides his finger inside her.  
  
It’s different than he’d thought, again, but not bad.  She’s tight around him and he thanks his past self vehemently for cutting his nails short.  When she sucks in a high, shuddering breath, he stills; but her nails rake at his back over his shirt and she rolls her hips toward him, “C’mon, c’mon, I’m good, you can move,” and he laughs before turning to kiss her.  
  
Soul has always thought of himself as being pretty good with his hands, years of piano and later guitar keeping him nimble, and it helps him now: Maka all but falls to pieces beneath him, breathy and flushed, and he’s so, so happy.  Satisfaction burns deep in his gut and he can’t keep the smile from his face when he kisses her again; this is exactly what he wanted, he thinks.  This is what he wants.  
  
She breathes a quiet moan when he slides another finger insider her, and pleasure settles warm and heavy in his chest.  “You’re beautiful,” he says, grins wider when she tightens around him, keeps his touch and rhythm steady as he kisses her eyelid, her jaw, the jut of her collarbone.  “You’re gorgeous, Maka,” he murmurs, curls his fingers just a little, and — oh.  That was a good noise.  “You sound so pretty — you’re so good.”  
  
I love you, he thinks again, more insistently, like the beating of his heart.  Maka shudders underneath him, hand covering her mouth again, and he leans down to kiss the back of her hand.  “Is it good?” he asks, too far gone to be embarrassed about the breathy rush to his voice.  
  
Though she doesn't answer audibly, she jerks her head into a nod and entwines the fingers of his free hand with hers.  Love bursts thick and warm in his chest.  
  
She’s almost as quiet when she comes: more gasps than moans, all red-faced and warm, nails digging sharp into his knuckles.  He watches her fall apart with wide, wide eyes, keeps working his fingers until she finally shivers to a stop.  
  
By the time he pulls his fingers out and wipes them carelessly on the sheets, Maka seems to have recovered, eyes open and sleepy.  “Hey,” she breathes, happy and content, and he loves her so, so much.  Her fingers trace up his neck and he nuzzles into her touch without second thought.  “Was that okay?”  
  
“It was perfect,” he answers, collapsing face-first at her side.  “Really.”  
  
She hums in acknowledgment as he nuzzles under her chin, swinging a leg over his.  “For me, too,” she answers.  “It was perfect.”  
  
Soul listens to her breath even out into sleep and dozes off in her arms, thinks to himself that he has never felt as in sync with her as he does right now.

**Author's Note:**

> me, banging my fists on the table: ace-spec soma! ace-spec soma!
> 
> as usual, you can find me at myrkks.tumblr.com


End file.
